Madrid

Last night, after finishing off a mixed salad and empanadas de carne in the small kitchen I’ve come to call home, I went to slice open the orange in front of me. We were all talking about the dismal state of Greece’s economy, and the beautiful state of Greek men when my knife slipped off the orange and propelled it and the plate to crash down on the black slate floor. Everyone went silent. The plate broke into a hundred pathetic little pieces. I felt my face turn red.

“Lo siento Mercedes! Lo siento.”

“No te preocupes, chica.”